“I am the Indian chief I have attempted to describe. Take that for your answer.”
The young girl was silent.
“If my heart bleeds for suffering, it is my mother’s nature pleading within me. I check it, because it would be unworthy of a warrior, and the leader of warriors. The storm has arisen—I am carried along with it!”
As he uttered the last words his form seemed to dilate, while his listener stood wondering at it spell-bound.
After a pause, he continued in a tone more subdued, but still full of feeling.
“If I have caused you unhappiness, think of me as the involuntary instrument. My uncle was beloved by all his tribe—by all our race. His injuries were ours; it was ours to avenge them. And for her”—his voice trembled as he pointed to Sansuta’s grave—“she was his only hope and joy upon earth.”
Alice Rody’s tears fell in torrents over the last resting-place of the Indian maiden. Wacora observed them, and, with a delicacy of feeling, was about to withdraw from her presence, when she stayed him with a motion of her hand.
For some time neither uttered a word. Alice at length spoke, through sobs which she vainly strove to check or conceal.
“Forgive me,” said she, “for I have done you a great wrong. Much that was dark and terrible appears now just and natural. I cannot say that I am happier, but I am less troubled than before.”
He would have kissed her hand, but, with a slight shudder, she drew back.